


every other freckle

by breezeeblocks



Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Freckles, M/M, Poetic, Song: Every Other Freckle (alt-J)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-17
Updated: 2020-11-17
Packaged: 2021-03-09 20:55:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,313
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27602425
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breezeeblocks/pseuds/breezeeblocks
Summary: George doesn’t fall in love.No, he jumps into it. Like leaping blindly from a cliff, carelessly, well-aware of its consequences, yet addicted to the adrenaline that runs through his veins. George doesn’t fall, he willingly spirals down.
Relationships: Clay | Dream/GeorgeNotFound (Video Blogging RPF)
Comments: 23
Kudos: 369





	every other freckle

**Author's Note:**

> hellooo!! this is something short i wrote because i wanted to use this account while i'm working on something longer. i really hope you enjoy this kinda poetic stuff about love hhhh 
> 
> inspired by every other freckle - alt j

George doesn’t fall in love.

No, he jumps into it. Like leaping blindly from a cliff, carelessly, well-aware of its consequences, yet addicted to the adrenaline that runs through his veins. George doesn’t  _ fall _ , he willingly spirals down. 

It’s a decision, almost. 

He watches Dream, soundly asleep, mouth half open, and wonders if the way his heart beats erratically will ever change—if, with time, it won’t be the same, and all the risks he took would be for nothing. He wonders if it’s worth it. 

Then Dream shifts, hair covering his eyes, matted and greasy, and,  _ oh _ , is it worth it. To witness such sight, to be part of it. To stand and know it’s  _ his _ . 

The many dots that cover his skin seem to shine, like stars, like galaxies, the entire universe, he holds. George is no poet, but the moon doesn’t compare, the sun doesn’t burn as much, and the earth stops spinning only for him. For him. 

For him, George chooses. 

A choice that contains infinite outcomes. An uncertain future. Yet George looks at Dream and fear becomes a mere emotion, so insignificant it gives in, grants him power and control. Now there’s a new ulterior force inside him, vigorous and passionate. It leads the revolution.

If love is a swimming pool, George drowns.

-

The beach is impressive. 

Waves wash up to the shore, tickling George’s feet where they are slowly sinking into the sand. It’s a golden white. A faded, decolorized yellow. Maybe it’s his warped perception of reality, or the landscape’s colors are actually plain, pale. Except there’s Dream, and he’s colorful. He’s every color of the rainbow, and every color George can perceive, and shades that don’t even exist. Dream is a collision, a colossal painting on a church ceiling. A colloquial word that's so rarely spoken. A colorful winter. A connection. A conversation at 3 a.m under the eerie darkness painted with white dots. A constellation. A constant. 

And George can’t get enough.

“Wanna go for a swim?” Dream suggests, standing in front of him, almost towering. 

“Yeah,” he replies.

Diving into the water is similar to what George is feeling, in a way. It surrounds him, envelopes him, and suddenly he can’t breathe. 

Under the scorching sun, smiling beautifully, Dream laughs, and George inhales, taking in as much oxygen as he can. But it doesn’t seem to work, because his lungs are filled with a thick and liquid substance. He chokes, metaphorically—in reality, physically, he’s fine, healthy and alive. As Dream pushes his hair back, George focuses on his rosy nose and cheeks, then his mouth, then his neck. 

It burns. A fire starts. 

George doesn’t know how to deal with it.

“I’m cold,” he says, instead. His chest is red. 

“Really?”

“Yes,” George gulps, “let’s go back.”

Dream doesn’t oppose. He swims towards the shore until he’s able to stand up, and George watches as water dribbles down his back. It’s hypnotizing. So George remains frozen in the same spot and wonders what it’d be like—to touch, to feel, to be the showers that shower him, to do the things his lungs do so well. 

His insides get swallowed by flames. 

“You’re gonna get sunburned standing there,” Dream warns him.

If only he knew, if only. George feels as if he’s evaporating, slowly, piece by piece. Still, he manages to move, and walks on the flaming sand praying he doesn’t completely dissolve. It’s difficult with Dream’s eyes locked on him.

“What are you looking at?” 

“You.”

George melts.

-

Home is a complex concept.

A place, or a feeling. A simple noun, or familiar arms around one’s body. George feels as if he’s not ready to define it, yet. But right now, laying on Dream’s bed, he feels at ease. A song plays in the background, a slow tempo, and George is tranquil enough to close his eyes and allow himself to descend into daydreaming.

“Dude, are you really falling asleep?”

George opens one eye and nods. 

“Okay.”

The music engulfs him and for a moment he forgets where he is, who he is, what the fire inside him means. George forgets. And so sleep overtakes him, inevitably, breathing slowing down. Shadows and voices begin appearing in an attempt to conjure a story, a dream. He focuses on them, letting them lure him into the depths of his mind. 

When he finally opens his eyes, George is welcomed by dirty-blonde hair and freckles. His heart beats one, two times and stops. It’s on his throat, like a lump impossible to swallow. Panic is what anyone would experience in his situation, but George knows—it’s nothing but a dream. A fragment of his imagination. 

Dream breathes and shifts closer to him, face against his chest. 

Shaking his head slightly, George closes his eyes, looks at his hands and counts his fingers; ten. The scar below his thumb is there, too. So he resorts to stare at the details of Dream’s face. 

Long eyelashes, red nose from the sun, and exactly thirty-one freckles scattered around his skin. Overwhelmingly real, it is.

The warmth of his body against George’s is what begins driving him insane, because their legs are somehow tangled together, and his arm is dangling from George’s waist, and they are one. They merge, blending perfectly. George’s heart beats loud enough to break his rib cage apart and set it free, and he’s sure if Dream was awake he’d feel it, banging against his chest. 

It’s mind-blowing.

Once he relaxes, loosening up, George is sure he can hear Dream lightly snoring. His mouth instantly curves into a smile, overwhelmed by fondness and  _ love _ , the kind that overflows him. Now he gives in, gazes shamelessly at Dream, taking in his features. In any other given moment, George wouldn’t dare, wouldn’t even  _ think _ about it—this time, though, his hand comes up to where Dream’s head is resting, and he brushes his fingers against his cheek. Delicate, soft, warm,  _ real _ . 

George is home. 

-

Sometimes Dream looks at him and George has to immediately remind himself to breathe.

Because honey drips from his voice, and his bright green eyes turn dark, alluring. George becomes unable to control his inner turmoil, the burning desire that eats at him. It’s  _ hard _ to be around him. And Dream is aware, incredibly so. He takes advantage of that. 

“Are you done?”

“No,” George doesn’t look up from his phone, “as I already told you two minutes ago.”

He continues reading. Dream shifts on the bed. 

“Are you done?”

“You’re  _ so _ annoying—“

And,  _ oh _ , Dream is close. Their eyes meet and George gulps. It’s hopeless, to even attempt and look away, to stop his eyes from glancing down. He does and Dream licks his lips. George is done.

Inside his lungs, there’s a forest, and the fire that has been consuming him, turns into a wildfire rapidly. It ignites with desire. And Dream doesn’t relent, he tilts his head and focuses on George’s lips. No one makes a move.

The air becomes so dense breathing is not an option. 

“Would you let me?” Dream mumbles.

George would,  _ will _ . 

“I’ve been waiting my whole life.”

It doesn’t happen in slow motion, it’s not like a movie, or a kiss under the rain. It’s everything, and nothing, the culmination of a long story, the end and the beginning. George feels the fire climbing, spreading through his whole body, smouldering, crackling, playful. Their lips fit, just right, and then George knows—he understands why he jumped.

Why he plummeted down, aware of fate, destiny and the future that awaited.

Two galaxies collide, gravitational fields interacting, merging. They pull, and pull, until there’s no more  _ space _ . Light and chaos. Dream is the sun, too bright, too hot, and George is the moon. Dream is the rain and George is the ocean.

And they fall.

**Author's Note:**

> talk to me on tumblr @lesbiangogy !!!


End file.
